


Un mensonge, un pléonasme

by lesmisloony



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Reality, Constancest, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14056356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesmisloony/pseuds/lesmisloony
Summary: Constance finds a large blue box in her living room, and a familiar(ish) face inside.  The much-needed sequel to "Une anagramme, un erratum".  For the #aprilfilles prompt "historically accurate".





	Un mensonge, un pléonasme

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Une anagramme, un erratum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319830) by [lesmisloony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesmisloony/pseuds/lesmisloony). 



One day, when Constance returned home from the market, she discovered an enormous blue box in her living room.

She furrowed her brow and dumped her apron-load of vegetables onto a side table, studying it from her place near the door.  The box was nearly tall enough to reach the ceiling and just bigger than a wardrobe.  It was lined with opaque windows, and some sort of foreign text was printed along the top.  There were doors on the side that faced her, one panel covered by a white sign she couldn't understand.

"Wolfi?" she called, but there was no answer.  Her husband was supposed to be at a lesson for the rest of the afternoon.  It didn't make sense that he would have had this oversized blue wardrobe delivered.  But who else could have brought it here?

Constance walked slowly around the outside of the box, looking up at the windows and down at the floor beneath it.  There were no obvious scratches on the floorboards, and no one had a key to their apartment but herself and Wolfgang.  The box certainly hadn't been standing here when she left an hour ago.  So how could it be here now?

When she had completed her circuit around the box, Constance returned to staring at the front of it with her hands on her hips.  Was it meant to be a wardrobe?  It was practically a hut.  And who had thought to paint it such a preposterous color?

She threw her arms up in a shrug and approached the box, giving the door handle a tug.  It didn't budge.  She tried pushing, but to no avail. 

Great.  A giant blue wardrobe that didn't even open.  Just what she wanted in the middle of her parlor.

She groaned and rested her forehead against the rough wood.  "The assembled hordes of Genghis Khan couldn't get through this door," she grumbled.  (Wolfgang had forced her to sit through a four-hour opera about the history of the Orient last week.)  And, in a moment of frustration, she rapped a fist against the side of the box.

No sooner had she struck the box than the door swung inward, and Constance tumbled forward, right inside.

"Oh!" said a voice.  "It's you!"

Constance scrambled to her feet, but upon righting herself and looking around she very nearly collapsed all over again.  She was standing just inside the doors of the wardrobe-sized box - but she was standing on the threshold of an enormous room.  An enormous brown room with walls covered with opaque portholes and several tree-like columns twisting from the floor to the ceiling.  An enormous room, at the center of which stood... Constance Mozart.

Well, she wasn't Constance Mozart, not precisely.  Or rather, she _was_ , but not here.  She was another Constance Mozart, a sharp-tongued, dark-haired version of Constance who had appeared in the real Constance's bedroom years ago on her wedding night and... their encounter had escalated.  "You!" Constance said, holding onto a nearby metal railing to steady herself.  "You're here- you're... this box!  It's... it's-"

"Bigger on the inside?" the other Constance asked.  "Yeah.  I've noticed."

Constance's knees nearly gave out; she seized the rail with her other hand to stop herself sinking to the floor.

"Alright, keep it together," said the other Constance affectionately.  She hurried forward and caught the first Constance by the arm, guiding her further into the impossible room and helping her up onto a hideous brown divan.  She hopped onto the seat at her side and wrapped a thin arm around Constance's shoulders.

"This box-" Constance started to say.  But then she spluttered, "You-!"

"Me, us, the box," the other Constance said.  "Yeah.  Tell me about it."

"How-?"

"I don't know.  I came home from the market and it was just sitting in the middle of the parlor.  I thought it might have been something Wolfi ordered, but he'll be-"

"-at a lesson for the rest of the afternoon," Constance interrupted.

"Right," said the other Constance.  "So I had a good look at it, and I noticed it was sort of... shimmering.  Like, I'd stare at it and sometimes it was there, just as solid as you are right now, and sometimes... I could see through it."

"Alright," Constance said quietly.

"The door was open a little ways, so I gave it a kick and I saw that there was a whole room tucked in here somehow.  But when I stepped in, the door slammed itself shut behind me and this image of a man in a funny brown suit appeared up there on the ledge."  She pointed to a metal catwalk that ran the length of the room.  "He was shimmery too.  I don't think he was really here.  He looked straight ahead and started talking about a- a security protocol?  And then there was a great roaring sound and the things on that table in the middle of the room started to move up and down.  I grabbed ahold of it until everything stopped and... then when the doors opened up again, I saw you."

"Alright," Constance said again.

The other Constance chuckled.  "So?  How have you been?"

"Do you have to ask?" Constance replied weakly.  The last time the two of them had met, it had quickly become clear that they were leading the same life.

"I suppose not.  Did your Wolfi convince the emperor to let him make an opera out of Figaro?"

Constance nodded.  "Rosenberg and Salieri tried to stop it."

"Bastards," grumbled the other Constance.  "They look the same for you, right?  Rosenberg is a little fellow who does himself up like he's at Versailles every day, and Salieri is grim and always brushing his hair out of his eyes?"

"Yes- well, no.  Salieri keeps his hair tied back in a ribbon.  It's too long not to."

"Really?  I'd like to see that."

Constance wrinkled her nose.

After a pause, the other Constance said, "I suppose I might see it.  I certainly don't know how to make this thing take me home.  I might be stuck here.  In your world."

"Well, Wolfgang certainly wouldn't object to having two wives," Constance said lightly.  When she glanced at the other Constance out of the corner of her eye, she found that she was studying her.

"Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Would you be happy if I stayed?"

Constance felt a flush blooming over her cheeks.  The other Constance still had an arm around her shoulder; unable to think how to answer, Constance just caught her hand in hers and interlaced their fingers.

Apparently that was answer enough.  The other Constance leaned closer, letting her breath ghost over Constance's cheek as she murmured, "I still think about you, you know.  Sometimes, even when I'm with Wolfgang, it's the thought of you that gets me off.  You, standing there in your underthings in the middle of a pile of white silk, unsure whether you should be terrified or furious, your golden hair tumbling about your pretty shoulders..."

Constance cleared her throat, though she knew her grip on the other Constance's hand had tightened.

"...and your body," the other Constance went on.  Her free hand on Constance's thigh.  "So different from mine, but you react to everything the same."  She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of Constance's neck, and despite herself, despite the bizarre situation in which they found themselves, Constance heard herself whimper.  The other Constance looked up, the light of mischief dancing in her dark eyes, and she said, "Come on.  We may never see each other again.  Or I may be stuck here forever.  But either way, why not make the best of it?"

She looked like she expected to have to go on convincing her, but Constance closed the distance between them and caught her mouth in a hard kiss.

And a few minutes later her backside was pressed against the edge of the funny round table in the center of the room, her skirts were gathered around her waist, and her hands were buried in the dark, unruly hair of the other Constance as she had her way with her.  Constance leaned her head back and squeezed her eyes closed, letting out another moan at the feel of her tongue, her fingers, her expert touch, driving hard against the spot that sent waves of heat and merciless shudders coursing through her body with every touch.  She was good, she was  _so_ good, she knew her so well - it was never like this, not even with Wolfgang, not even their wedding night.  Another thrust, harder, and Constance had to release her hair with one hand and reach back to brace herself against the cluttered table lest she collapse onto the ground.  Her fingers wound around one of the switches, it gave way, and suddenly the door on the other side of the room slammed closed and a long, mechanical groan roared through the impossible wardrobe.

The other Constance lifted her head and met her eye, her own gaze as confused as Constance's must have been.  The room began to quiver around them and the glowing column at the center of the table pitched up and down.  The other Constance's grip tightened around her legs.  "I knew I was good," she joked, her voice half-smothered in the commotion, "but this might be an overreaction."

With a final heave, the room settled again.  Constance shot a nervous glance at the switch she had flipped.  Had it done more than lock the door?  Should she try moving it back, just to make sure she hadn't broken something?

The fingers of the other Constance's hand were still inside her, devastatingly motionless as her counterpart glanced nervously around the room.  Constance looked at the closed door again and considered suggesting they explore to see what had happened.  But then she noticed that the other Constance's lips and cheeks were slick, catching the teal light from the column behind her, and the closed door didn't feel like such a priority.  She pushed her hips forward, driving herself down over the other Constance's fingers, and she saw that wicked glint alight in her dark eyes again.  She slid her free hand down the length of Constance's thigh, readjusting her leg over her shoulder, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.

And perhaps it was the wet sounds of the other Constance's ministrations, or perhaps it was due to the ragged moans that Constance herself could not keep contained, but somehow the two of them were so lost in each other that neither heard the door creak open.  Neither heard the click of footsteps on the ramp.

Someone cleared their throat, and that sharp sound finally broke through the spell that the two Constances had created: this time, the other Constance was so startled that she released Constance entirely; when she tried to turn around from her position on her knees, Constance's lavender skirts slipped over her head like a veil and Constance herself nearly lost her balance.

A woman was standing in the doorway.  Constance had never seen her before: she had a cherubic round face, her curly brown hair was swept up under an elaborate hat, and the front of her blue dress seemed to have been cut specifically to accentuate her impressive breasts.  She was staring at the two of them with a stern expression, her brows lifted and her lips pursed, but Constance was sure she could see a hint of laughter dancing in her large eyes.  "Well?" she asked.  "Where is the Doctor?"

The Constances exchanged glances, then turned back to the intruder.  "What doctor?" asked the other Constance.  She batted Constance's skirts away from her head and rose unsteadily to her feet.

" _The_  Doctor," the woman said with an impatient gesture.  When neither of the Constances answered, she let out an impatient groan.  "He has close-cropped hair and large ears and wears a short jacket made of leather.  This is his TARDIS."

"Uh- it was empty when I found it," said the other Constance.

The first Constance self-consciously smoothed the front of her skirts.  She had been so close that her legs were still weak, but the heat was beginning to recede.

"Oh, well, perhaps he was tall and thin in a tight brown suit," the woman said.

The other Constance glanced up at the catwalk where she had seen the shimmering illusion of a man, but still she said, "There was no one here.  I came in and closed the door, the whole room shook, and a moment later she came in.  That's it."

"Hm," said the newcomer.  She stepped the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind her, and strode purposefully up to the central table, where she began fiddling with the knobs and switches.

"Be careful," blurted Constance.  She pointed to the switch she had flipped earlier.  "When I moved this, I thought the whole place was going to fall down around my ears."

The woman rolled her eyes.  "And that is why the Doctor should not have let you touch his console," she said tersely.

The other Constance's hand came to rest at the small of her back, and Constance shot her a grateful look.

"Oi, no one  _let_ us do anything, lady," the other Constance said.  "We each came home and found this blasted box sitting in the middle of our parlors.  There isn't anyone else here to tell us what the hell is going on."

"Then it is a good thing you brought the TARDIS back to me," said the woman.  "The Sontarans are invading and intend to start a war with the emperor.  If the Doctor is not here and the TARDIS was adrift when the two of you found it, that means that it has fallen to us."  She reached beneath the console table and withdrew an oversized mallet, which she passed to Constance.  "Here.  Aim for the backs of their necks."

Constance took the mallet wordlessly, shooting a panicked glance at her counterpart.

"Listen, lady," the other Constance said, "I don't know who the hell you are, but we never-"

"My name is Constanze Mozart," the newcomer interrupted, fixing both Constances with a defiant stare, "and I am the woman who is going to rescue the Doctor and save the Austrian empire from an intergalactic war."  She threw a switch on the console table, and the room began to roar and shake.  "And, with any luck, I will be back home before Wolfie has returned from his lesson."

 

 

 

Count Orsini-Rosenberg was an important man, he told himself irritably as he leaned against the wall in the distastefully damp underground bunker where the invaders were keeping their prisoners.  He was a very important man, in fact.  It didn't matter what planet you claimed to have come from: if you had dared to lay your hands on Count Orsini-Rosenberg - if you had tied him up and thrown him over your shoulder and threatened him with some oversized firearm when he refused to reveal the emperor's whereabouts - there would already be hell to pay.  But locking him up alongside Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was absolutely inexcusable!  Inexcusable!

Mozart was taking the situation with relatively good humor, because of course he was.  As soon as their guard had stomped away, he had let out one of those awkward giggles of his and reassured his fellow prisoner that the people of Vienna loved him, and that they would meet any ransom that was set at once.  Then he had had the audacity to wink at Orsini-Rosenberg and declare that "his Stanzi" would find a way to free them if the people of Vienna didn't.  If Orsini-Rosenberg's hands hadn't been bound with a length of rope, he might have slapped the ugly pink wig right off of Mozart's head.

A third prisoner was thrown into the room a short time later, mercifully landing in the space between Orsini-Rosenberg and Mozart. He was tall and thin and kept yelling at their captors to send someone named General Staal to negotiate with him personally.  When the guard slammed the door closed and stomped away without complying, the new prisoner turned to Mozart and Orsini-Rosenberg and began giving an impassioned speech about the power of the human race to rise up against oppressive captors and reject the ideology of war.

Orsini-Rosenberg lifted his bound hands enough to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumbs, though he very nearly knocked off his spectacles in the process.  He had never expected imprisonment to be so... tedious.

Eventually their new companion identified himself as a physician, and Mozart identified himself as - well, as Mozart - and of course the garrulous physician began to proclaim his love of Mozart's work.  Orsini-Rosenberg rolled his eyes.  Wonderful.

There was no obvious way to tell the time in the underground bunker, and Orsini-Rosenberg could not get to his pocketwatch with his wrists tied together.  The hours began to stretch by like days, and still his fellow prisoners would not shut up.  Where was the imperial army?  Where were the attendants that were always swarming around the palace?  At least he could be sure that the emperor was safe.

There was a shout from outside, a metallic thud, and a heavy crash.  The physician and Mozart finally fell silent, and the three of them turned expectantly toward the cell door as it was blasted open from the outside.

The smoke that had billowed into the room began to clear, and Orsini-Rosenberg could just make out the silhouette of three women.  In the center stood Mozart's wife in that low-cut blue dress and a fabulous feathered hat, wielding some sort of metal wand with a blue light at the top.  She was flanked by two more women in matching lavender dresses: the one to her left was holding a heavy mallet in both hands, and on her other side a wide-eyed blonde had one of the Sontarans' bulky firearms slung over her shoulder.

The room began to reel around him, but it wasn't until Mozart cried, "Stanzi!" and all three women replied, "Yes?" that Orsini-Rosenberg gave in to his instincts and fainted.


End file.
